🚀 Pipeline Results Report

Truth! I shall speak you if I am  
in habit of listening to you, clear  
river running from heart-root to tongue.  
You gather light as water gathers stars,  
and when I lean close, your current hums  
a humble hymn for uncluttered moments.  
So I practice hearing: the hinge of dawn,  
the shy confession of settling dust,  
the pulse beneath a quarrel’s roar,  
every syllable the world tries to swallow.  
Some days, noise clots the canals within,  
yet you wait, patient as unworried moss,  
sure the ear will open like spring earth.  
Teach me to be soil, to be still,  
that the root of candor may anchor,  
drinking every unambiguous drop of being.  
Then, when night crowds the pane,  
I will stand inside its quiet lantern  
and speak what glimmers, unmarred by varnish:  
the bruise that healed, the fear that stayed,  
the love that stuttered yet kept breathing,  
the promise tasting of iron and rain.  
Let my voice bear your contour exactly,  
no richer, no leaner, only true.  
May those who hear feel stones lift,  
as if the ground itself admitted sky.  
Grant them a hush where courage can root,  
and let tomorrow arrive wearing honest light.

Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,  
letting your syllables drip like rain through the guttered hush of dawn.  
I grow ears on my palms, on my tongue, inside my ribs,  
so every pulse of stone, every wingbeat, every tremor of wind  
beats a tattoo of candor against my bones.  

I study the hush between waves, the breath before thunder peals,  
the wobbling hush of a match before it flares to confession.  
Where others crave applause, I dine on crickets,  
their modest stridulations schooling me in exactitude.  
I harvest rumor, strip the husk of shout, pocket only the kernel of fact,  
then bury it in silence till it sprouts a stem of purpose.  

Truth, you do not speak in brass or stained-glass certainty;  
you whisper in the scratch of graphite, the rift of ice on river skin.  
I lick salt from your unvarnished sentences,  
taste the iron of weather on every unadorned vowel.  
When the time comes for speech, I open my mouth like a well   
that has stored dawn in its moss-cold rings,  
and let the water rise—clear, steady, undisguised—  
so those who thirst may drink, and know where they stand.

Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,  
if morning’s first hush still carries your clear syllable  
through steam of tea and the crow’s rasping confessions.  
For you do not roar like empire,  
you creep in miniature—dewdrop,  
ring of a spoon’s edge, child’s sideways question.  
When I train my ear to such small tremors  
I feel your pulse tap beneath every surface:  
the asphalt remembers rain,  
old books breathe soft dust of vanished hands,  
and the mirror refuses to flatter the tired eyes  
that keep vigil for another sunrise.  

Yet the world barters clamor for coin,  
constructing towers of curated echoes.  
Each time I bend to that marketplace  
I sell a fraction of my hearing.  
So let me retreat to the patient grove  
where crickets rehearse eternity,  
where wind annotates the oak with careful margin notes,  
and let the quiet tutor me again.  

Then, when the hour arrives for speech,  
my tongue will have no choice but honesty.  
It will taste of river stones and sap,  
carry the exact color of twilight on its vowel,  
and clap like clean cloth on a line,  
because it will repeat only what it has truly heard.

For the first time in my life  
I watched dawn unbutton the trembling sky,  
letting its shy, rose-tinted confession spill  
across the hush of telephone wires,  
and I felt the morning speaking fluent silence,  
a language my pulse suddenly understood.  

For the first time in my life  
I noticed the elm tree rehearse forgiveness,  
its leaves releasing last night’s dark wind  
as easily as small luminous birds.  
I stood beneath it, barefoot, uncertain,  
yet somehow already taller than yesterday’s grief.  

For the first time in my life  
I tasted water without naming its absence.  
It rested upon my tongue like myth  
and melted the salt of unfinished sentences.  
I swallowed a shard of invisible horizon  
and it rang inside my chest like bells.  

For the first time in my life  
I saw the path ahead unclench its fists,  
not promising safety, only movement,  
only the soft percussion of footsteps  
inventing their own story on gravel.  

And because beginnings require brave witnesses,  
I lifted the mirrors of my eyes  
toward whatever waited beyond the garden gate,  
and walking, I became both gate and wind,  
both question and unafraid answer—  
for the first time in my life.

For the first time in my life  
the world paused, exhaling a silver breath  
that hovered between heartbeat and horizon,  
a small suspension where I could listen.  

For the first time in my life  
rain didn't feel like sorrow, but like script  
the clouds wrote just for earth’s open palms.  
I lifted my hands and let each syllable fall,  
soft commas cooling the fever of conclusions.  

For the first time in my life  
I noticed the stubborn lamplight lingering at dawn,  
loyal as a dog refusing to abandon porch.  
It taught me endurance is a candle that forgets  
its own melting.  

For the first time in my life  
I spoke to the mirror without negotiation;  
my name arrived unarmored, a fledgling note  
seeking echo. The glass, generous, returned  
a chorus of possible sunlight.  

For the first time in my life  
the road ahead seemed less about distance  
than permission. I stepped forward, carrying  
no map, only the marrow of astonishment,  
and every pebble replied with the hush  
of doors unlocking.  

Let this be my testimony: beginnings  
do not arrive like trumpets, but like breath,  
quiet, inevitable, waiting for someone willing  
to whisper yes.

For the first time in my life  
I felt the clock unclasp its jeweled fingers,  
letting the hours tumble like marbles into grass,  
bright, round, uncounted, impossible to gather again.  

For the first time in my life  
I walked past the edge of the photograph—  
beyond the scripted smiles and tidy horizon—  
into a wind unguided by camera or calendar.  

It smelled of cedar and distant lightning,  
a perfume older than memory.  
Birds wheeled above, apostrophes in an unwritten sentence;  
their cries stitched sky to earth with invisible thread.  

My pockets were full of undone lists,  
dead batteries, a key to an unnamed lock.  
I emptied them into the river, watched them sink  
with the gravity of former selves.  

Then I laughed—an emigrant crossing a border of bones—  
because laughter, unescorted, can float.  

For the first time in my life  
I let the surface ripple without explanation,  
trusted the current to remember its own mouth.  

I do not know where I will land,  
only that the water offers every horizon twice,  
one to dream upon, one to enter.  

I chose the one that moves.

Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,
So I cup my ear to the hush between heartbeats,
Where coins of silence glitter brighter than slogans.
I hover, moth-like, near the lamp of a child’s question,
Let your unsponsored light singe my wings.
When the marketplace roars with bargains for attention,
I lean into the undertow of your whisper
And come away impoverished of pretense.
You are a stern teacher, Truth;
You grade in the red ink of consequence,
Yet your lessons lie hidden in the margins of ordinary hours:
The sound a spoon makes circling dawn’s first coffee,
The way a widow slips her ring into a drawer,
How the river keeps its vow to the sea without certificates.
I practice your difficult music, mouthing vowels of candor,
Mistakes crack like metronomes, but still I count the beats.
One day, when words gather at my lips like swallows
Reading the compass of your wind,
I will release them clean and unafraid.
Until then, I listen, listen—
For every silence is a rehearsal stage,
And your name, Truth, is the line I must earn.

Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,
like a child who cups dawn in both hands,
careful not to spill the trembling saffron.
I press my ear
against the hush between heartbeats,
where you travel barefoot, leave no dust,
yet scatter seeds.
I rinse every sentence in that hidden river,
rub off the varnish of vanity,
hold it to the sun until
meaning shines through the bone.
Your voice is quiet iron,
it bends but will not break;
it grows warm in the palm,
stains my skin with courage.
When storm-tongued falsehood rattles the shutters,
I remember your small syllables
grazing the inner drum,
and I answer in the same clear pitch.
If ever my lips forget that cadence,
remind me with the scent of rain
returning to the earth that birthed it.
Habit is a staircase carved by footsteps;
each humble ascent shapes the stone.
I climb, breath by breath,
until the roof is sky
and speaking becomes listening
and listening becomes the hush
where you first learned to bloom.

Truth, I will speak you only if I learn your hush,
the faint syllable you utter when dawn first lifts fog.
I have chased you in statues and footnotes,
in chambers where echoes substitute for breath,
and you kept silent, letting theories quarrel.
So now I sit on the floor with a clay cup,
wait for its glaze to cool, feel the heat withdraw.
Inside that vanishing warmth you rustle like wheat,
grain after grain naming itself without mouth.
If I can memorize that granular murmur
perhaps my own tongue will open like a window,
no longer dazzled by glass, but by wind.
Then I will not recite, but resonate,
bone tuning fork to the pitch of your pulse.
People may ask for slogans, proofs, confessions;
I will offer the pause between waves,
the salt left when argument evaporates.
Speak, they will insist. They will call me mute.
Yet they will taste something mineral in the silence,
and their hearts will pronounce it for me.
Thus speaking you becomes listening further,
spiral shell that repeats the ocean until it is ocean.

Truth, I shall speak you
if I am in habit of listening to you,
as the heron stands still
in the pearl hush before dawn,
drinking the river’s mirror
until its throat remembers water.
I press my ear
to the slow chest of the world;
I learn the syllables of root and stone,
the gargled vowels of wind
passing through a barn’s ribs,
the brittle consonants of pages
turned by moth wings at midnight.
Only when the guest room of my skull
is swept free of argument,
only when silence opens its shutters
and lets the raw light in,
do your footfalls reach me.
Then you arrive, unshaven, barefoot,
smelling of cut iron and honey.
You sit at the rough kitchen table
and let my tongue borrow your coat.
I speak you, Truth,
not as polished doctrine
but as the tremor left behind
when thunder gives its final cough,
the taste of copper in rain,
the outline of a distant city
wiped clear by dusk.
Stay while the kettle sings;
I am still learning your name in full.

Truth, ancient mirror polished by unborn dawns, reflect me clean.
I bow before your silver breath, inhaling shards of fearless sheen.
Too long my tongue rehearsed the fragile music of convenience,
composing lullabies for crowds who feared the thunder of evidence.
Tonight I trade applause for quiet; let rumor’s drum go still;
I lean into your heartbeat, let it tutor nerve and will.
Teach me your austere grammar, the sharp consonants of light,
so every vowel I utter rings like flint against the night.
Embed your salt beneath my skin till every pore confesses,
and common talk becomes a forge where trembling ore progresses.
If habit is a temple, carve your statutes on its stone;
make ritual of listening, that speaking need not stand alone.
Then may my voice, once bartered cheap, rise currency of fact,
and echo undivided when temptation begs me to retract.
O mirror, keep me practiced; rehearse me line by line,
so when the world asks payment, only honesty is mine.

Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,
So I hush my clangorous heart and lean
Against the railing of my breathless mind.
I wait for your slippered feet to cross the tiled corridors
Between concealment and confession.

You arrive, not as trumpet, but as raindrop,
Tapping the tin roof of a long-forgotten barn.
Each syllable you drop becomes a seed,
And I must choose whether to plant it
Or let it rot beneath habitual storms of noise.

I practice silence like cello scales,
Bow stroking emptiness until tone appears.
In that resonant pause your whisper
Shows me the knot in the limbs of my story,
The slim green shoot curling for light.

Then I speak, and speech is simple—
Not a weapon or parade, but a lantern
Which remembers the shape of the hand that lifted it.
My words become windows rinsed by night rain,
Glass clear enough to hold starlight without shattering.

Listen first, you counsel.
Language is an echo, never the source.
When the cave of the mouth is quiet
Mountains may answer through it.

From childhood’s hour I have not been
a tenant of the sunlit throng;
the distant bells, the village green
refused to braid me to their song.
I wandered where the shadows muse,
where owl-lit hollows softly speak,
and learned to read the ashen hues
that midnight paints on mountain peak.
My playmates were the drifted leaves
and clocks that stopped for secret snow;
I stitched my dreams with silent eaves
and let the underground winds blow.
So when the years unlatched their gate
and bid me stand among the day,
I carried dusk as private fate,
a charcoal badge I can’t allay.
I love, yet love with restless eyes
that search the quiet behind each face;
I laugh, yet hear the echoed sighs
of darker rivers under lace.
Still, I would not trade the minor key
that quivers in my haunted bone,
for in its tremor lives the sea
of every star I call my own:
a hush, a flare, a bruise of blue,
all fused within the moon’s tattoo.
Let critics map the measured light
I lost beneath the porch of dawn;
they cannot chart the velvet night
that gifts me paths their feet withdraw.

From childhood’s hour I have not been
a guest within the tempered day;
the willow’s hush, the meadow’s din
felt foreign to my shadowed way.
While other hearts were glazed with noon,
I tuned my pulse to crooked moons,
sketched winter birds in grains of dune
and brewed my tea in quiet runes.
A lantern lodged behind my eyes
that flickered silver, green, and coal;
it taught me how the silence sighs
beneath the chorus of the whole.
So I grew tall but inward-bent,
a watchtower for unseen tides,
recording every filament
that common speech forgets or hides.
Let others pledge their vows to light;
I pilgrimage through twilight’s seam,
collecting shards of broken night
to tile the ceiling of my dream.
If you should think me lost or cold,
come walk the road that dusk begins;
you’ll find my stories, amber-scrolled,
swung high like lamps on whisper-pins.
For in the hush where edges blur
between the fragile and the vast,
I cup the dark and make it purr—
my oldest friend, first breath to last.
It hums a map of crooked streets,
a lullaby of ember rain,
guiding my untethered feet
back to the marvel, back to the vein.

From childhood’s hour I have not been
a citizen of day’s republic; my passport inked
in smudged twilight, I crossed borders no map admits.
While other children traded stickers, I bartered
silence with old oaks, learning the dialect of sap
and the algebra of insect wings. I hoarded
unanswered questions like marbles glittering in my
pocket, shook them, heard small galaxies rattle.
Teachers listed history’s vertebrae; I traced instead
braille drifting across clouds, believing thunder
was a form of scripture. Nights I practiced
invisible instruments: a violin of spider silk,
a drum forged from hollow moons, until wallpaper
rippled into forests thrumming blue. The years
tried to iron me flat, press creases exactly nine-to-five,
but the crease remembers wandering. Now, commuting
among suited shadows, I still taste midnight on
air-conditioned wind, still memorize silhouettes
streetlamps stitch across wet pavement. I keep
one shoe laced to asphalt, one foot ticking beyond
edges, so when routine tilts toward plaster I let
an unseen hallway open, step through its breathing
mirror, and offer my collected strangeness to the
waiting council of stars.